


we all become

by manykinsmen



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Blade Runner AU, Brothels, Choking, F/M, Face Slapping, M/M, Multi, Sadism, Sex Work
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-25
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-15 16:28:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29686743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manykinsmen/pseuds/manykinsmen
Summary: In the late 21st century, Valtteri and Daniel are mechs belonging to a seedy downtown brothel. They don't have much in common, but they have the same end-of-life date.
Relationships: Susie Wolff/Torger "Toto" Wolff, Valtteri Bottas/Daniel Ricciardo
Comments: 4
Kudos: 12





	we all become

**Author's Note:**

> Content warning guys: this is pretty graphic and brutal.

The red neon light outside the window fizzes in the thick rain, sputters pathetically and blinks out. Valtteri looks up from the chess set, then back at Kimi at the desk. “Siihen ei tule valoa,” he says just loud enough to be heard over whatever cheap tits and explosions flick is playing on the television. Kimi curses, stubs out his cigarette in an empty coffee mug and slouches up out of his seat to fetch the toolbox, grumbling all the way. Valtteri fixes his eyes on the board again, pushing a bishop forward until the pawn in its way falls on its side. There’s no one playing against him, not since a customer took Lewis upstairs earlier, but that’s part of his appeal when he’s in the fish tank. Valtteri’s gimmick is replicant chic.

Daniel is reclined on the floor, cuddled up as the big spoon to Lando’s small and lazily stroking Lando’s soft curls. They have a different target audience, the kind of people who thirst after the real thing, warm flesh and genuine human expression, unlike Valtteri’s cold stare. In the corner of his eye, Valtteri can see someone lingering across the street, watching them through the glass storefront, deciding whether or not to come in, or perhaps just reading from the menu. It’s a man (it’s almost always a man) in a grey suit with neatly kept hair and polished shoes, his hand dangling lazily from his trouser pocket. Valtteri considers him, considers how his gaze is on the fish tank and not the gyrating bodies of the mechs in the caged windows upstairs. Men like this can go either way.

Kimi has not returned from the basement by the time the man enters the building, so Valtteri steps out of the tank and slides behind the desk like he’s wearing more than just a pair of black trunks. “See something you like, Sir?” He keeps his intonation perfectly flat, the way that the owners prefer him to, fixes his sharp blue eyes on the man who squirms momentarily, then pulls himself out of it. A first timer – dangerous, but nothing they’re not equipped to handle.

“The boy – the little one,” the man says, confidence growing with each word, flipping through the virtual book until he settles on Lando’s profile. Lando’s not expensive, none of them are, unless the customer wants more than the basic services. They’re a downtown knock, none of the sleek chrome and polish of a high-end establishment. Valtteri scans the man’s chit and whistles for Lando, the note sharp and clear between his thin lips.

Lando is giggling as he appears in the doorway, parting the beaded curtain that has to be there because it’s just that kind of place. He folds his arms over his chest like he’s shy, a blush rising across his cheeks and nose that makes him look so young and innocent. It ought to be illegal, and it would be, if Lando were a real boy. The law changed ten years back to say that only mechs could do this kind of labour. It’s no life for a human. The man squeezes Lando’s wrist tight enough the veins press against Lando’s skin, red blotches already forming and Lando gasps, his eyes glistening as he is dragged upstairs. Valtteri scans under the desk to see how much nanogel Kimi’s got in stock. Their supplies are low. He purchases some quickly on the company account as he hears Kimi ascending from the basement. Kimi is stingy with the stuff.

“Lando is upstairs with a customer,” Valtteri informs him and steps away from the desk. The owners could have an android run the desk, but it’s an expensive bit of equipment to use when you could just pay humans starvation wages. Kimi makes his real living hawking dust and tabs, even the odd vacc, and the owners don’t mind. Besides, the regulars like Kimi – some even used to fuck him way back when. These days they’re usually after Valtteri.

“Mhmm.” Kimi doesn’t often deign to talk to the merchandise. He turns to the television, props his feet back up on the desk and lights another cigarette, dismissing Valtteri with a wave of his hand.

It’s a busy night and now there’s just the two of them in the tank. Charles, Pierre and Antonio were in the cages, but its doubtful that all of them are now. As much as he dislikes this, Valtteri has to admit that cage duty is worse. He feels Daniel’s gaze slide over him as he slips back into his chair and begins to contemplate the board once again. Daniel leans over and pushes the white king with his index finger. It gyrates is slow, awkward circles before Daniel commits and tips it over, knocking aside a rook in the process.

“A silly move. White had the better position.” Valtteri resets the pieces as Daniel sits down opposite, ignoring his broad grin. They keep different company when they have options. Daniel prefers to entertain and to be entertained. Valtteri prefers quiet.

“I’m a silly person.” Daniel strikes out with a pawn as soon as the pieces are in position, moves without thought. He quirks a challenging eyebrow, his lips curled into a smirk. He keeps his eyes on Valtteri and not the board.

“You’re not a person at all.” Valtteri opts for the right-hand knight after a few moments, not as unusual an opening as it first appears. He watches Daniel’s fingers dance across his row of pawns before settling on the queen, sliding her out into play. It’s a basic move and a poor choice considering his opponent’s opening move. Valtteri rolls his eyes.

“How would you know?” Daniel laughs but it takes only two moves for Valtteri to capture the white queen. He strokes it idly as he holds it in his palm, his gaze still fixed on the pieces. Daniel reaches out to lift the black queen from where she sits, unmoved but Valtteri catches Daniel’s wrist before he can snatch her away.

“An illegal move,” Valtteri says as Daniel leans forward to kiss him on the lips. It doesn’t shock Valtteri. They’ve done this many times before – it is, after all, their function. Valtteri kisses back, precise and clinical as he sets the white queen down, freeing his hand to grab Daniel’s throat, pushing Daniel down into his seat as he stands.

“Showtime.” Daniel giggles and Valtteri turns to stare out onto the street. There’s a couple watching them, a man and a woman, him older than her. They are speaking to each other and Valtteri can hear the rhythms of their speech through the glass but not their words. The man looks at the woman, then up at Valtteri and nods, a tiny motion. Valtteri squeezes Daniel’s throat and he gasps, arches his back and splays his legs wide. The woman looks at the man, Valtteri’s eyes still fixed on their audience, and nods and then Valtteri hears the bell rattle over the door. He eases off, lets Daniel breathe.

They are machines, but they are genetic machines, their programming etched in the cells of their flesh and blood bodies. Most mechs are these days. You can grow cell clusters on a large scale easily enough; digging the resources out of the ground is wasteful and outdated. There’s variance in them too these days, not like those first models where every unit in the batch of ten or twenty was identical. No, you wouldn’t believe it to look at them, but Daniel and Valtteri came from the same batch, the same end-of-life date tattooed on the inside of their lower lips.

Kimi grunts from the other room. They are wanted.

\--

The man, Toto, as the woman calls him, gets off on the illusion of power. He slaps Valtteri hard across the face, watching Valtteri’s neck wrench sideways, a red glow blossoming across his cheekbone, and then return to centre, his face expressionless, eyes unblinking. Humans like this think that Valtteri is physically incapable of crying but it’s not true. He can cry on command, if it is what the customer desires. Toto strikes him again, the same spot, gets the same reaction, the brief pause of Valtteri’s joint before he returns to centre again. It is like that in his mind. Pause, assess, return to centre. The skin is broken where Toto’s ring has caught, a small trickle of blood dripping down the side of Valtteri’s face. It happens, it’s easily fixed, though some customers are displeased it’s not oil leaking out of him.

Toto’s wife has different desires. Valtteri and Daniel are infrequently paired together with their clashing appeals but in this instance they each fit their assigned roles perfectly. Daniel lavishes attention on her the way a real lover would, stares longingly into her eyes, begs to be allowed to touch. Toto strikes Valtteri again, the blood smearing across his open palm and the contours of Valtteri’s face. He does not hit his wife like this because he loves her, because she is a real person with real feelings and who experiences real pain, Valtteri considers, losing himself in the rhythm of it.

His eye is swollen shut by the time Toto stops to lick the blood off his palm and Valtteri’s head is ringing. Still, he returns to centre, fixes his one functioning eye back on Toto with a blank stare. Toto pulls his belt open and Valtteri lets his mouth loll open lifelessly, his neck craned upwards from where he sits on his folded knees. Toto fucks his mouth rough and fast and Valtteri can hear his wife getting off behind them. Daniel’s customers love his boundless enthusiasm.

“God, fuck. Almost as good as Nico. What do you think Susie?”

“Mhmm- Oh… Hnnh- This one’s good,” The wife chokes out as she cums. She pauses, breathing heavily as Toto’s thrusts pick up, his hand gripped tight on the back of Valtteri’s neck as he pushes his face flush with his groin. There’s blood in Valtteri’s nostrils and he can feel it forming bubbles as he forces breath through them, only just hanging on to his composure. “He’s not Lewis though. Shame he was booked up.” Toto cums down Valtteri’s throat.

\--

The second they leave, Valtteri lets himself slump over, giving over to the ringing in his ears. He grips tight hold of the end of the bed, a whimper escaping out of him. He chastises himself – they might still be able to hear him through the wall and it’s not professional, not part of his branding. He tries to remind himself that it’s not real pain, that he is a machine and ought to act like one but Daniel rushes over and cradles his head in his hands.

“Fuck Val. Christ… Just- Just stay there. I’m coming back. Stay awake.” The door closes. Valtteri grips the cheap wooden footboard, his fingers sliding against the grain, a splinter pushing into the pad of his thumb. It’s too much. His eye brims over, liquid spilling down his cheek. Then Daniel is holding him again, the familiar burn of nanogel knitting his skin back together licking at him as it works. He blinks a few times before his once swollen eye eases itself open and the blurry haze of Daniel’s hands solidifies into something tangible.

“Thank you,” Valtteri mumbles, wheezing as he scrapes dried blood away and frees up his airways. Daniel squeezes him tight. A hug. Valtteri can’t recall the last time he was hugged. It must have… It must have been a customer, surely. He trembles in Daniel’s grasp. Customers have done much worse to him before but never in front of another mech. Oh, he thinks. This feeling is shame. Valtteri does not think he has felt shame before.

He pushes Daniel away and walks into the adjoining bathroom on unsteady feet. The nanogel isn’t finished working yet and in his reflection in the mirror, Valtteri can see the skin rippling as it turns from deep purple, almost black, back into its more usual fairness. It will take several minutes and makes Valtteri’s skin look jaundiced at the edges. He pushes the two segments of his split bottom lip together, wincing. It hurts, but it helps the process. He pulls it down to check its working on the cuts inside his mouth where he’d bitten into his own cheeks, watching the numbers of the date warp at the stretch, considering them for the first time in a long time.

A year. He has just over a year before the fail sequence kicks in and his body shuts down around him.


End file.
